Chapter 6 #2
Okay, I tell Blastoma and Chemo and the rest of the monsters once I’ve hung up again, What I need here is the personal touch, my honest face.
Which is why, half an hour later, I’m at the farthest away bit of coastal Fife with a residential home on my list, prepared to work my way back or until I find her, whichever comes first.
“Hi,” I say to the uniformed girl who lets me in on the buzzer and then slips behind the reception desk to deal with me.
“I wonder if you can help. My name’s Lindsay Hale—I was Lindsay Lord, from Lord’s Yard up in Menstrie?
” I wait for recognition even though the whole point of coming to Fife was to put a bit of distance behind me.
Besides, this kid isn’t the junkyard type and looks back at me blankly.
“Anyway, I’ve been living overseas for a while—look.
” I get out my Hawaii driving licence and put it on the desk between us.
“But I’ve moved home. And I’m trying to get in touch with an old friend.
Her name’s Peggy March and I know she’s moved into a home recently, but I don’t know which one. ”
That’s my devious plan: the unvarnished truth.
Well, close to the unvarnished truth except for that little bit of fancy footwork where I said “old friend” hoping this girl will think “close friend” and not “new friend in her eighties.” Even “new friend” is pushing it: One cup of tea plus a business card left behind isn’t what anyone would call a friendship.
“Can’t you ask her family?” the girl says. “She could be anywhere really. What made you think she was here with us?”
“It’s near where she lived before,” I say, lying now.
“But her family might have chosen a place near them. Where do they live? Has she got kids?”
“Just the one,” I say. “But I don’t really want to ask her. She doesn’t . . . Truth is, she doesn’t . . .” I don’t want to keep lying but, if I say Mrs. March’s daughter doesn’t know me, I’m going to look dodgy.
“You think she might not approve of you visiting?” the girl says, pulling her brows down.
“No idea,” I say. “Does she have to approve?”
“Absolutely not, no way!” I realise that the frown wasn’t for me; it was for this imaginary daughter who’s trying to stop her mum seeing old friends.
“Even if she’s responsible for her mother’s legal and medical, she can’t stop the old lady’s social life.
” She twists her mouth to the side and shakes her head, joined with me in distaste for this woman who’s controlling her own mother for no good reason.
“But like I said, Mrs. March isn’t here. ”
I thank her—from my heart because she’s left me much more sure of my ground as I move on to care home number two.
It works there, and in the following four, but then at a place in Kincardine, halfway home again, something goes wrong in a way I can’t immediately understand.
I walk in—there’s no buzzer here—and a man looks at me through the vertical blinds covering an office window then comes out to the foyer to see what I’m after.
My heart sinks when I realise that he’s another one my messed-up mind is telling me I know from somewhere.
At least I don’t embarrass myself by trying to claim an acquaintanceship.
“What can I do for you?” he says. I falter as he’s reaching out to shake my hand.
I’m surprised, for one thing, because I would have thought that if anyone was still practising distancing it would be the staff in places like this.
But that’s not all. His hand looks not quite real as it comes towards me, rippling at the edges.
I take it but step back again after we finish shaking.
This is a serious day-long smoker, and the stench of tar and tobacco coming off him is strong enough to be off-putting.
“My name’s Lindsay Lord,” I say, looking away from his fingers and back at his face.
I’ve ditched the married name bit; it was distracting.
“From Lord’s Yard up in Menstrie?” This guy definitely knows it.
“I’m just back home from living overseas,” I go on.
“I can show you my American driver’s licence to prove it, if you need to see ID.
Thing is, I’m trying to get in touch with an old friend, called Peggy March.
She used to live in a house called Saint Helen’s—I don’t know the name of the road, sorry—in Dunblane, but she’s just moved into a care home somewhere near here, only I don’t know which one. So I’m going round asking.”
I sense someone else in the office and, as I look up, the vertical blinds twist shut, so all I can see is my own reflection.
“There’s no Peggy March here,” says Nicotine Ned. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea to go on the hunt for old ladies, you know. How many other places have you asked?”
“Seven,” I say, including the one on the phone because he’s put my back up. Everywhere else, a nice lady or girl has politely told me that I’ve struck out, without any of this sinister hinting that I’m doing something wrong.
“You’ve been round seven homes asking for Peggy March?” he says. He’s not the healthiest-looking man I’ve ever seen, having that yellow-grey complexion with eye bags that look like oyster shells, but unless I’m imagining it, his face is darkening as I speak to him.
“No one else seemed to mind,” I tell him. “What do you think the problem is?”
He looks behind himself at the half-open office door. If I had to guess, he wants whoever is in there to come out and deal with me but he doesn’t want to ask. It’s probably his wife.
“We take safeguarding very seriously,” he says, spitting the words. Literally spitting. I take another step backwards. “So I don’t want to have to let anyone know that your organisation is using predatory tactics to—”
“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I say. “My organisation? Predatory? What the hell are you on about?”
“Lord’s Yard,” he says. “You’re sniffing round for a house clearance.” I open my mouth to tell him that the house is clear, but he sails on. “We work pretty hard to stop funeral directors, furniture dealers, e-scooter reps or anyone else from bugging our friends. Take a hike.”
I find myself smiling. I’ve had the sharp end of it but it’s still good to know how well-protected these people are.
“I will go,” I say. “ I mean, you’re wrong about me, but I can’t prove it, so . . . I’ll try something else.”
“You do that,” he says, turning away. He’s back in the office before I’m out of the front door, and whoever it is who’s lurking in there says something I don’t quite catch. It sounds like “Now shave,” but even if that is his wife, it surely can’t be.